Sunday, August 26, 2012

The ladies sit playing canasta. The fiddler gestures towards them, and gives me a quizzical look.

"Yes, you are right. They are from the other side of the family. If the roof can slide from one country to another, who am I to say which side of the family can be here?"

The fiddler thinks for a moment and plays "Which Side Are You On?"

"We've gone over this. My Grandma S was Sarah's neighbor. Sarah was having a family picnic, and invited her neighbors over. My Grandma M took one look at Grandma S's daughter and decided she ought to meet her son.You know the rest."

A smile plays on the fiddler's lips as he considers how my mom and dad were set up on a blind date. Perhaps it is my overactive
imagination but I could swear the fiddler has morphed from a bearded, tuniced Nineteenth Century peasant into an urbane
Jack Benny playing "Love in Bloom." So sweetly rendered I cannot help but murmur, "Thank you, Mr. Benny."

"Would you like some ice cream," Cousin Anna asks me as if I were nine once again.

"Thank you, Anna," the grown up me responds. "But unless you have a special way to keep ice cream cold, I think I''ll pass."

Anna looks around. "Oh, I forgot. This is not our apartment on Jeffrey Boulevard."

"Uh, Anna, how did you all manage to lug a card table and four chairs up here?"

Anna smiles sweetly. "I just go along with what my sister Mary and your grandma want."

"I get that, Anna, but you all came a long way."

The old woman peers at me from over her glasses. "We do have an advantage," she explains. "When we fly, we don't have to check baggage."

The fiddler shakes his head. A pushcart. A card table. What next? He decides better to have four women playing canasta than that pesky Uncle Toby under foot. Speaking of which, he wonders where the old blowhard has gone off to.

The women gossip among themselves while Uncle Toby sits at his laptop and consults various websites. Before he can examine the map more closely, he is interrupted by a commotion. My Grandma M rails loudly in Yiddish that her cousin a cheat. Cousin Mary denies it. Toby loudly clears his throat. The women look over at him, and resume their argument. Toby unplugs his laptop and moves to another part of the roof. The women pay him no mind.

Uncle Toby likes how he can zoom in and zoom out on this map. Beats paper that way. What he likes about paper, though, is that things like rivers stay in one place. The fiddler wanders over to where Toby is seated. Uncle Toby points to the river on the map.Then he motions to the north side of the house. The fiddler wanders to the north edge of the roof and looks down. Sure enough the river is to the north. Perhaps, Uncle Toby reasons, the canasta players have caused the house to rotate. The fiddler makes
a spinning gesture. Hard to imagine that four women could have caused the house to spin 180 degrees, but Uncle Toby can find no explanation as to why the river was south of the house just the day before.

Uncle Toby once again consults the maps. He unfolds the paper maps, inadvertently causing the paper to rustle. The canasta players shush him. He shushes them back.

Sliding borders. Rotating roofs. The fiddler looks over at me and raises an eyebrow.

"This is all your doing," I say to him.

His face breaks into a wide grin. He knows I have found him out.

"You do this for your own amusement."

He smiles more broadly and then slyly puts his finger to his lips.

"I am not yet sure how you do it," I say, playfully shaking a finger at him. "But don't worry. Your secret is
safe with me."

The fiddler pulls out a pouch from his tunic. He carefully opens it up.

I peer inside. I dip a finger in and bring some of the powder to my lips. "Capital, old man," I say in my best
Gomez Addams voice. "Best pixie dust I've ever seen.Or tasted, either, for that matter."

Sunday, July 29, 2012

I wonder if that is the vestiges of an long dead and buried knock knock joke, when I realize he really is selling bananas.

"Grandpa," I explain patiently. "There's only four of us up here. How many bananas can we eat?"

He shrugs and goes up to Uncle Toby. "OK. No bananas. Could I interest you maybe in a fedora?"

Uncle Toby, ever the proper military man, brushes him off.

"Apologies, Grandpa.. You have to forgive Uncle Toby. He's an Englishman in a strange country." Maybe
even two strange countries, I think to myself. "Got anything in a military dress hat?"

Grandpa folds a piece of paper into a sailor's hat, and offers it to Uncle Toby who shreds it to ribbons and scatters the remnants over the side of the roof.

"Uncle Toby," I stammer angrily.. "That is littering! Good thing there is not a police man near by to write a
citation."

Insulted, Grandpa shambles away cart and all to another part of the roof. The fiddler plays something mournful. I sigh and call after Grandpa, "Please come back. It's been many years, and I have so many questions."

"I will, Debele, when, this man apologizes," Grandpa says as he points an accusatory and gnarled finger at Uncle Toby,

I look over at Uncle Toby. He looks recalcitrant. I can tell this rooftop diplomacy is going to take a while.

Thankfully the fiddler is good for something other than klezmer music. He knows military marches as well.
Given he is but one violinist, his rendition of Stars and Stripes Forever was particularly stirring. Uncle Toby
is favorably impressed.

A short while later Grandpa is telling Uncle Toby about his millinery victories. Uncle Toby listens with
rapt attention while occasionally consulting his maps which seem to change terrain to suit the story.. They
toast their armistice with the contents from a brandy bottle.

Grandpa snores softly. I pull a light blanket over him to keep off the chill air. The questions can wait until
morning.

About Me

My life is a series of theater of the absurd vignettes.
I am passionate about education reform or what I call education equality. I am a strong Special Ed advocate. I strongly support dedicated, conscientious educators.